


Sub Rosa

by Intrinsic_Cat



Category: Shadow of a Doubt (1943)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:18:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intrinsic_Cat/pseuds/Intrinsic_Cat
Summary: Charles Oakley, from three points of view.





	Sub Rosa

He first lays eyes on the suspect in Philadelphia.

This man has only existed on paper before now: a name, the bare bones of a history, a few statistics. The only photographs on file are frustratingly generic shots of an average figure in dark suits and hats. Jack’s pet theory is that the man must have a sixth sense about photographers, for none of them have been able to capture his face on film. The well-tailored cut of his trousers, unremarkable shoulders draped in expensive cloth, the smooth curving line of his neck as he turned away, the brim of a hat – for all that Jack has become intimately acquainted with every last detail available to him, the photos are useless as a means of identification, but are dutifully kept on file. Jack has spent more time than he’ll ever admit to on the one photo in which they’d caught a glimpse of the man’s hair below his hat; seen from behind, of course.

He’s only been able to speculate about the color, but it comes as no surprise at all to find that the man who might be the Merry Widow Murderer – a man who seduces rich women to rob them of their life and wealth – has hair the color of burnished gold.

 

 

Charlie Newton first lays eyes on the Merry Widow Murderer in a seedy, low-lit bar in Santa Rosa. The dull hum of a dozen separate conversations is swallowed up in the slow-building roar of static in Charlie’s head. She breathes in deeply for a breath or two, but the stale-sour odor of booze and cigarettes turns her stomach. Though she’s lived in Santa Rosa all her life, she’s never seen it from this angle – its glossy patina dulled to something less eminently respectable.

Unfamiliar…like the man seated across from her.

Her uncle speaks to her of nightmares – her mind fills with images of fun-house mirrors, of white-washed graves. Her face is hot and tight, her stomach burns, but her white-knuckled hands are cold. A wave of vertigo drains her, makes it painful to maintain eye contact with this stranger in familiar form. Why should _she_ be the one to feel so dizzy, she thinks, almost giddily, when _he’s_ the one who’s taken a tumble off a pedestal?

But he’s been on the ground all along, it seems. She’s just been lying at his feet all these years, looking up, and it’s no wonder that when she finally stands up straight for the first time, and too quickly, that it takes a moment for her blood to catch up with her head.

He says he’s brought her nightmares. He has. But he’s also shaken her out of a dream.

“Wake up, Charlie.”

She does.

 

 

Emma Newton sees a beautiful child, all golden curls and innocence – a shining beacon she’s followed for years. Charlotte may be her first child, Roger may be her baby, but before them – always – there was Charles, and always would there be.

She never notices the drawing of the veil, never sees the shadows – her golden idol still dazzles, even through the tarnish. She brings up her daughter in this belief, in this seemingly harmless worship. It is during the early years of Charles’ absence, when he first leaves home, that her daughter is born, and she confers on her the gift of his name. Charles is a restless spirit, flitting about the globe; the name is a talisman, a charm. She names her daughter Charlotte, and this is Emma calling Charles back to her. A proxy, the icon of a saint. Charles comes back, from time to time, and once again she basks in his golden glow.

Emma Newton’s never laid eyes on her brother at all.

 

 

 


End file.
